Alsoomse and Wanchese -- Chapter 7

Algonquian Words

Cattapeak: spring

Cohattayough: summer

Kwiocosuk: shaman, priest

Mamanatowick: ruler of several villages

Montoac: a mysterious, immediate, and pervasive power beyond and greater than that of humans

Nepinough: earring of the corn season

Popanow: winter

Taquitock: the harvest and the falling of the leaves season

Wassador: copper

Weroance: chief of a village

Weroansqua: female chief of a village or dominant wife of the

village’s weroance

Windigo: cannibal monster (plural: Windigoag)

Characters Mentioned

* historically identified person

* Andacon (Evergreens) – 25, Wingina’s war chief

Etchemin (Canoe Man) – 18, canoe maker and social outcast

* Menatonon – 55, mamanatowick of Choanoac

Nootau (Fire) – 20, Sooleawa’s son and Alsoomse and Wanchese’s cousin

* Osacan- 26, elite member of Wingina’s council

* Wanchese (Take Flight off of Water) – 20, protagonist

Map 

Chapter 7

They had angled across Occam toward a jutting peninsula between two broad rivers. “That way!” Andacon ordered, pointing emphatically. Wanchese, Nootau, and Osacan, paddles raised, stared. “That way!” Andacon pointed again, moving his hand leftward.

When they were a hundred yards from the tip of the peninsula, Osacan spoke. “All I see is bald cypress. Where is an opening?”

“Perquiman had three or four longhouses when I was here last,” Andacon answered.

“Ah, no village then.” Osacan laughed. “Wanchese, Nootau, no village girls for you!”

Wanchese shook his head. He was not going to play the fool of Osacan’s joke. “The land is deep swamp,” he said, blandly. “Where could anybody grow corn?”

“Plenty of fish,” Nootau said.

Had Nootau also declined to play?

“Wide river. Seagulls,” Nootau added. “White perch. Probably striped bass.”

Nootau was not a skilled hunter. Mostly, he fished. He spoke from knowledge. As for hunting, there would be game here. Deer, especially. A person could live here. But not many. He was curious.

He saw beyond the shoreline a slight elevation. Maybe there, he thought.

“I see a weir,” Andacon declared.

They headed for it, saw beyond it two beached canoes, one quite small, the other the size of their own.

A minute later they were pulling their canoe out of the water.

Thirty feet away somebody was staring at them. Wanchese glanced past the man to view the slight incline of a small clearing. Its leaves gone but colored buds forming, two large red maples back-dropped the clearing. Wanchese looked again at the man. Like Wanchese and his companions, he wore a deerskin apron. He had no feathers inserted in his head.

Andacon raised his right hand. “May we stop here? We are traveling to Choanoac. We need to spend the night. I am Andacon, of Dasemunkepeuc.” He took two steps forward.

The man said nothing, stayed motionless.

Wanchese watched Andacon’s back and shoulder muscles tighten.

“I came here at cohattayough. I spent the night at your weroance’s long house. He will know me.”

“He is not here.” Arms dangling, the man showed no emotion.

Andacon looked at Osacan, looked back at the man. “Who lives here? Where do I find them?”

The man bent his left arm, examined it, allowed it to hang. “Four hunters. From Weapemeoc. This is not a village.” He looked up the gradual slope past the two maples.

All right, then.” Andacon strode past him. Osacan, smiling at nobody, followed. Nootau and Wanchese trailed. Beyond the maples, twenty feet to the left of what was a rude pathway lay a felled, limbless tree trunk held in place horizontally by forked tree branches embedded in the ground. A canoe in the making, Wanchese recognized.

Wanchese saw beyond the half tree trunk, half canoe a rude, bark-covered shelter. Where this silent man spends his nights, he concluded. He hoped he and his party would have a roomier, more accommodating shelter within which to sleep.

Passing the red maples, they saw near the top of the incline four longhouses, similar to but somewhat smaller than the longhouses at Roanoke. Raising his right hand, Andacon stopped. He pivoted, looked at Osacan, grimaced. “I don’t trust that … man we just passed.” His right thumb and forefinger traced the sides of his nose. “Somebody needs to guard our trade goods.” He craned his neck, as if to see over the tops of the maples and the tupelo and cypress close to the river. “Also, can we trust these ‘hunters’?” He looked expectantly at Wanchese.

“You want me to stay by the canoe.” Why me? Wanchese thought. Nootau was the fourth man!

“I do.” Andacon nodded.

“One of us will wake you when you are asleep,” Osacan said, smiling.

“Be certain that you do,” Wanchese responded.

“Your task bears responsibility. You will have first choice of a Choanoac girl,” Andacon said. “We promise.”

It was a remark Wanchese would have expected from Osacan. He was surprised, and pleased! Andacon was a serious man who meant what he said. Even though Menatonon, not Andacon, would decide who would be lying beside him. That he had been assigned to guard the canoe meant that he had not lost entirely Andacon’s respect. Or, maybe he was being tested. Either way, he would perform the task. He nodded, turned about, walked down the incline.

The strange canoe-maker was near his shelter. He was starting a fire, striking together two rocks over shaved wood. By his side was a reed basket containing fish. Hearing Wanchese’s footfalls, he looked up.

“I will be spending the night by my canoe,” Wanchese said, passing him.

He had a deerskin to cover him but nothing to cover the ground. He had suffered worse. He thought it wise to find a place where he might not be noticed by any thief. He saw no such place.

Footsteps. He turned. The canoe-maker approached, a deerskin draped over his right forearm. “Use this. Do you have pearls, shells, and pottery to trade?”

Wanchese said nothing.

“So you need to protect them.” He dropped the deerskin at Wanchese’s feet. He turned, started to walk back.

“Thank you.”

The canoe man stopped, turned, looked at Wanchese for ten seconds. “I have fish for us to eat. You will know where I am while you eat.”

#

They had not spoken after the canoe-maker’s candid invitation. Wanchese had followed him to his fire pit: a depression covered with sand enclosed by sections of charred logs. The man had dried Spanish moss and brittle twigs burning. He had taken from beneath sewed-together deerskin broken-off tree branches stacked against the nearest corner of his shelter. Wanchese guessed the branches had come from the tree trunk that the man was hollowing into a canoe.

After placing several branches on the fire, the man brought out of his shelter a four-legged, tied-together framework of blackened branches similar to what the women at Roanoke and Dasemunkepeuc used to roast fish. Wanchese had seated himself on a log near the fire. The man sat on a log opposite him, the fire between them. Roasting perch, the canoe man made twice quick eye contact. Appreciative of the man’s generosity, Wanchese felt compelled to speak.

“I am called Wanchese. You?”

The man’s mouth stretched; its corners moved downward. He grunted. “I am called many names.”

Wanchese shifted his position on his log, lifted his right hand. “What can I call you?”

The man rubbed the flesh between his right thumb and forefinger against the underside of his chin. He looked into the fire. “Enkoodabaoo. Etchemin.”

Wanchese’s mouth widened. “You have two names? Which should I call you?”

The man looked toward the skeletal limbs of the red maple and gum, dark against a darker backdrop that would soon be night. Orange tendrils curled around the firewood’s top branch. Wood snapped where a twig had been torn off.

Wanchese studied the man. Etchemin continued to look away. He was young, not fully grown. Wanchese judged him to be close to Alsoomse’s age, shunned by others because … of what? Dislike? Distrust? Compared to youths his age Etchemin was slimmer, lean. Wanchese assessed the youth’s biceps, the tautness of his shoulders and chest. He was, not surprisingly, well formed, the consequence of hard labor.

Wanchese had to ask. “Etchemin. Why are you living here? Where do you come from?”

He did not receive an answer.

Etchemin tore off a section of fish with his front teeth.

Wanchese resumed his visual examination. There was nothing about Etchemin that indicated either knowledge of acceptable social behavior or attainment of elevated status. Wanchese saw no earrings, no tattoos, no shaving of the hair at the sides of his head. Clearly, Etchemin did not hunt! The only aspect normal about him was that his long hair was tied tightly at the back of his head.

Wanchese took another bite out of the second fish provided him. Is this what Etchemin lived on? Why was he not eating with the hunters? Feeling the heat of the fire on his bare arms, legs, and chest, Wanchese glanced down the now indiscernible slope.

He had noticed scars on the youth’s upper body. A scar extended across his jaw bone.

“My friends and I follow Wingina, mamanatowick of Dasemunkepeuc, Roanoke, Pomeiooc, Aquascogooc, and Secotan,” Wanchese informed. “We will be trading with the great Choanoac mamanatowick Menatonon.” Expecting no response, Wanchese watched gray flakes rise from the flames of the fire. “Thank you for sharing this food,” he said.

Etchemin rose from his log, walked to his stack of branches, returned with an armful. He placed two on the fire. “I will sleep in my house. You may sleep here,” he said. “Water to drink is in the river.” He turned, walked to his shelter, disappeared within.

Wanchese rose. He would use the deerskin he had not taken out of the canoe, expecting to be provided a bed inside a longhouse, to cover himself. Etchemin’s deerskin would cover the ground. He expected to be awake much of the night.

#

He was awakened by the staccato sounds of a Great Horned Owl. “Hoo-hoo hoo, hoo-hoo hoo, hoo-hoo hoo.” A mating call. He anticipated a response. There was none. “Hoo-hoo hoo, hoo-hoo hoo, hoo-hoo hoo,” the same male sounded, unexpectedly close. He had never seen the Great Horned Owl, which lived, bred, and hunted exclusively at night. He had seen the crushed remains of its prey -- too large to be ingested.

Wanchese glanced at the fire. It was still burning. It had, in fact, not diminished! The corner of his left eye caught movement. He started, sat instantly upright. A human figure sat close to the fire.

Etchemin.

His arms and upper back tingling, Wanchese stared.

“Wanchese.” The youth’s right heel made a groove in the sandy earth. He looked at the mark. “You asked who I am.”

“I did.”

“I am Chesapeake. From Skicoac. I came here because I could not live there.”

Ten seconds passed. The light of the fire extended up past Etchemin’s face.

“Why?”

“Because … I am different. … I do not kill, do not hunt. I will not fight.”

Wanchese pointed. “Those scars?”

“Braves have hit me.”

Wanchese inhaled, exhaled. His jaw and cheek bones hardened. He thought of Askook. “You let them hit you?”

Etchemin looked at the fire.

“Why?

Etchemin stared past Wanchese’s left shoulder.

”Were you afraid of them?”

Etchemin made eye contact. Wanchese recognized anger. He raised his palms to the level of his chin. “Why?”

“I do not hunt and kill. I do not fight!”

Wanchese leaned backward. Staring at the Chesapeake, he struggled to understand. “Why do you not hunt?”

His right hand gripping his right knee, Etchemin leaned forward. “What do you see in the eyes of a doe that you have struck with your arrow and she is dying?”

Fear, Wanchese thought. It was the worst part of hunting.

Wanchese spoke rapidly. “Ahone permits us to hunt. It is the way of life. Eat or die. We give thanks to the animals who sacrifice themselves. You know that.”

“Killing is evil,” Etchemin said. “Fighting leads to killing. I will not become evil to fight evil.” He rose. He glared toward the river.

“If you never fight, … you are the doe.” Wanchese stood.

Etchemin turned away, went to and entered his dwelling.

Wanchese knelt upon Etchemin’s deer skin, stretched himself upon it, pulled his own deer skin over his body. He questioned how much sleep he would get before the sun made sleep no longer possible. He could not respect a man who had the physical ability to defend himself. It was probably that unwillingness more than Etchemin’s refusal to hunt that had caused other young men to abuse him. Etchemin had chosen to live this way and had been punished for it. He had been rejected and driven away to restore harmony, balance. Ahone had created a world that abhorred imbalance. Herring, striped bass, plovers, hawks, squirrels, turtles, bears all lived according to Ahone’s rules. Ahone’s dictate to the Real People: maintain His balance. Those who refused to obey had to be expelled.

#

Voices woke him. Early sunlight had penetrated the little clearing. Wanchese rose to a sitting position. He heard Osacan and a voice he did not recognize. Six men appeared out of a cluster of red maple and yellow-poplar. Osacan saw him.

“Wanchese, I am sorry I did not wake you. How went your night?” He laughed.

They veered toward him. He stood, and started to fold his deer skin.

“Not talking? You should know I had a very comfortable night!”

They converged. Osacan thumped Wanchese’s right shoulder.

Andacon had been studying the down slope. “You slept here, not by the canoe?”

“There was no need.” Wanchese brushed moisture off a section of his deer skin.

“You did well here?”

“It was good.” He looked at the ashes of the fire.

The brave standing beside Osacan spoke. “I know what happened.” He jerked his right thumb toward Etchemin’s dwelling. Etchemin had exited it. “You had fish.” He and his companion hunters laughed. “Not deer, rabbit, duck, or beaver. Fish!”

Wanchese straightened his back. “We did. Excellent perch.” He fixed his eyes on the hunter that had spoken.

“We had excellent deer stew, Wanchese.” Osacan extended his right arm. “I would have brought you some but I forgot.”

The hunter whom Osacan had apparently befriended stooped. He picked up from the fire pit the end of a branch not incinerated. “We allow him to live here,” he said to the wood, “because he builds canoes. Except for that, he is worthless.” He stared at Etchemin, standing next to his stacked branches. “Is that right, Useless?!” He hurled the piece of wood. Etchemin stepped to his right. The wood struck the side of the dwelling.

The hunter faced Osacan and Andacon. “He is useless and he is a coward! Watch!” The man strode toward Etchemin, who waited. “Show them I am right! Tell them you are a coward!”

Etchemin stared past him. The hunter slapped him, the sound of palm against cheek distinct.

Etchemin regained his balance, resumed his stance.

“Say it! Say it or defend yourself! No? Then here!” The hunter slapped Etchemin again.

“That is not necessary!” Andacon declared.

“Let him be!” Osacan responded.

“You see?” The hunter, facing them, grinned. “This is what we live with!”

Andacon motioned toward the river. “We have nothing here we must do. Down to the canoe,” he ordered. He stepped off. Osacan; Nootau, ever silent, looking tense; and Wanchese, red-faced, followed.

“Why not take him with you?!” the hunter shouted. “He can build you canoes! If you need to warm your hands, slap him!” They heard a third slap.

Wanchese stopped. He turned about, started up the incline.

“Wanchese!” Osacan exclaimed.

Wanchese heard Andacon’s stern voice. “No!”

He was twenty feet away from the hunter, then ten, then standing in front of him.

“Ah, the coward has made a friend!” the hunter mocked.

Wanchese grabbed the hunter’s skull feather, pulled it out of its groove, held it in front of the hunter’s astonished face, broke it in half. He dropped the two pieces. Locking his eyes on the brave’s face, he waited.

A deep red covered the hunter’s countenance. He swore. Wanchese saw the man’s right hand, of a sudden, move upward. Blocking the upward thrust, Wanchese kneed the hunter’s genitals. He heard instant distress. The hunter doubled over, Wanchese kneed his forehead. The brave went down. Wanchese pinned the hunter’s head to the soil with his right foot.

Breathing fiercely through his nose, Wanchese watched the hunter’s legs thrash. He applied greater pressure. The man emitted a plaintive cry.

He was aware suddenly that the others were close by. The thought that he might be attacked penetrated. He would bring each of them down! “You!” he shouted at the hunter immobilized under his foot. “I will let you up! If you choose to fight, I will kill you!” Three more fierce breaths and he removed his foot.